


And So The Wheel Turns

by SilverOsprey



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Lyrium (is. a. song!), Multi, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 01:10:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21485869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverOsprey/pseuds/SilverOsprey
Summary: 'A warden-shaped space exists in the world that always needs filling. But this time a butterfly flapped its wings and a storm was born.'(The warden changes. Can the story stay the same? And so the Wheel turns.)





	And So The Wheel Turns

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everybody! I hope I've interested you, at least.
> 
> I guess, to clarify a few things, this is my first foray into Dragon Age, and my first fic on this site. I should probably warn everyone I've got a hell of a lot of feelings and head-canons...and they're going to crop up? I can't help it, there's too much about this franchise that I find interesting that nobody appears to have explored, and I want to!
> 
> I'm admittedly still working on everyone's voice and given what I plan to do, I'm sure we're going to veer out of canon eventually. I hope that character voices still ring true, and they remain recognizable, even in this different scenario. 
> 
> Anyone with advice on tenses (HELP!) is appreciated and comments generally are, of course, welcome. Perhaps not required, as of yet - I have a stupid amount of motivation right now. (A word of warning though - I'm about to go back to work so I will have less time to write...although fortunately it's the only thing I want to do right now).
> 
> I hope to see you next time!

Chapter 1: The Road Less Traveled

Always, there is a warden. _That_ is Destiny’s decree. It might be a warrior or rogue or mage; a commoner or prisoner or noble; a human or dwarf or elf. And Duncan, though he does not know it, is the one who decides the course of destiny.

What Duncan does know is that there are avalanches and blizzards in the Frostbacks, making the roads to Orzammar impassible; or that there are gales that drown the coasts around Highever; or that roving bands of mercenaries make the roads to Denerim and the Brecilian Forest much more treacherous. So time spins forward and five potential fates fade. (For Duncan might reach a Dalish or city elf too soon and a young heir of Highever or a mage too late. He might be waylaid by the nobles of Orzammar and so a young casteless dwarf is surrendered to his fate.) Only one lives, and the path of fate is set. 

As it always was, so it might have been – a warden-shaped space exists in the world that always needs filling. But this time a butterfly flapped its wings and a storm was born. 

(Mythal leaned forward in intrigue/ a long forgotten, silent god hummed/ fate quivered in excitement; the Maker smiled).

  
\-----  


Storms all up and down the coast of the Waking Sea coupled with unusually warm weather in the Frostbacks had Duncan travelling to Orzammar earlier than he had intended. The foul weather had kept merchants and the like holed up in Jader, so Duncan would arrive in the Dwarven kingdom just in time to catch them with their wares untouched. (Duncan was frankly in need of a new blade or two or five). He would have time to visit the Dalish peoples of the Brecilian Forest. Later. 

And so it was that Duncan was too early (though he did not know it) and therefore ran into a caravan of merchants and a single chantry sister who were themselves too late (as they were never supposed to be).

The bandits never normally found the caravan either.

It was not battle that Duncan found, but the aftermath of one. Upended wagons, ransacked goods, charred remains. In the shadow of a half destroyed cart a single, slim figure in the shredded remains of a Chantry robe crouched. A woman – breast heaving, eyes staring sightlessly, dagger clenched desperately in hand. Duncan’s first instinct was towards gentleness – but then he saw the brand that stood out in sharp relief from where ripped robes hung off one shoulder. 

The Fleur-de-Lis. A mark well remembered by the men who had once fought against Orlesian occupation. The mark of the faithless, the honorless. The mark of traitors. Of liars. 

Duncan might have been inclined towards kindness, but he was no fool. The bodies scattered about were testament to this woman’s deadliness. The brand a testament to the caution with which he should treat her. As the woman returned to awareness he unsheathed his weapon and said calmly, “Drop your weapon. And hands where I can see them.” Then, more coldly, “I have no sympathy for traitors. I would not hesitate to strike you down where you stand.” _Perhaps a bit heavy handed, but I cannot trust this one on word alone._

The woman, however, recoiled at that and a wounded expression flashed across her features before they settled into resignation. She bowed her head before wordlessly dropping her weapon. Her expression, when she looked at Duncan again, was careful and her voice quiet. “What now, monsieur?”

“Now, we bind your hands and get off this damned mountain. Are there any other survivors?”

The woman looked around, something like sorrow in her expression. _Acting, or honesty? I do not know. I do not know!_ “I am uncertain, monsieur. If there were, they are long gone now.”

Ultimately, Duncan bound her hands with rope. Not chains, not death, but still symbolic enough of his distrust. Surreptitiously, he studied his new prisoner as she struggled to her feet. She looked exhausted – far more so than what the few fresh slices across her face and chest would imply. He realized suddenly that she was not exhausted, but _weary_. She stumbled up to him then, staring at what had once been a place of life, before saying quietly, “they do not deserve to be left here like this.” 

Duncan sighed once, heavily, and found himself relenting in his distrust and half infuriated at himself for it. He tossed cloth, bandages and a simple poultice at the woman. “Patch yourself up, and then help me” he said gruffly, stalking away.

In the end, Duncan was the one to gather the bodies and light the pyre. The woman had done what she could to obtain valuables or money from the corpses, a task made difficult by her bound hands. It was another strange contradiction, a spy and traitor, a creature of dishonesty and misdirection allowing herself to be bound, given he suspected it would be a simple matter for the woman to free herself. 

The sun had begun its slow decent by the time the corpses were little more than scattered ashes. The woman had said a prayer, but she had done so quietly, as if uncertain if such behavior would be welcome. Duncan had not bothered to join in – he believed in the Maker as one might believe in air. There, but not worth thinking about. 

“Thank you,” the woman said hesitantly. “It was kind; you did not-“

“_Enough._” Duncan ground out, suddenly deathly tired of the impossible contradiction of honesty and piety in an Orlesian traitor and spy of all things. “We’re leaving, now.” 

The woman’s shoulders hunched forwards protectively at that before she breathed out once, deeply. Then, her shoulders straightened and her face became calm. _A mask descending or one being ripped off?_ Either way, Duncan was thankful when she followed him in silence.

  
\-----  


The problem, Duncan found, with picking up an Orlesian spy was _picking up an Orlesian spy._ He couldn’t just leave the woman be – never mind Teryn Loghain, he was fairly certain King Cailan would have his head. It was just…poor form. And now he was stuck taking the woman back with him to Ostagar to make her someone else’s problem instead of continuing on to Orzammar in search of new steel and the possibility of new recruits. 

The thought is insidious and something only a man who has been a Grey Warden too long could have. _She does seem rather handy with a blade._ He shoves it away with all the desperation of a man who instinctively knows ‘that way lies danger.’ 

But, as the woman wordlessly helps him set up first a campfire, then a tent, then offers him some jerky from her own small pack he finds himself facing an even greater danger – _curiosity_. 

The words, when they burst from him, are half a desperate attempt to remember this is someone not to be trusted and a concession to his damning thoughts. “So. What’s an Orlesian traitor doing in Ferelden?”

The woman blinks at his bluntness, but then a wry smile curls about her lips. “Probably what every traitor would be doing in a country not their own, monsieur,” she says lightly. 

Duncan finds himself barking out a laugh at that. “I suppose I should have expected that,” he says dryly. “And the Chantry robes? Another factor of your escape attempt?”

Duncan had meant the words in jest, a continuation of surprisingly pleasant banter. So he is startled when the woman’s smile slips, then falls. Melancholy settles across her expression and her hands rub gently at where coarse rope chafes her wrists. “The Chantry, monsieur, is one of the few places that can look upon the most wretched of creatures and still dare to believe that one might have worth.” 

“Ah.” Now that, at least, is a sentiment Duncan can appreciate. The words slip out before Duncan is consciously aware of them. “Not the only place, though.”

The bewildered expression that crosses the woman’s face does make Duncan laugh. 

“Have you ever heard of the Grey Wardens?”

  
\-----  


The woman’s name, he finds, is Leliana. She is quiet, and it seems wrong, somehow. Her hair is too bright, her eyes too sharp, her mind too quick. Duncan gets the sense that this Leliana might have once been vibrant and playful; full curiosity and charisma; of life and song; (_joie de vivre, Maric forgive him_). 

But now, he sees a shadow. His Orlesian spy seems diminished, lessened. It is in the stiffness that accompanies her movements, the quiver as she raises her arms overhead. It is in the way she convulsively clutches at her battered, dog-eared Chant of Light; the way he sees questions rise up into her eyes but die unasked. 

(Some part of him wonders at whatever sin this girl committed, and hopes it was worth it, if this is the result). 

“If I may, monsieur, “ she asks as they have stopped to set up camp for the night, “where are you taking me?”

Duncan finds himself watching his new charge for a moment. She is easing a fire into liveliness, a pair of ptarmigan that Duncan had caught neatly plucked beside her. (Duncan had not kept her bound for even half a day, even if he has not yet donated one of his knives to her. There is just something _about_ this woman…)

“…where do you think I’m going to take you” Duncan responds, wondering how this woman will respond. Information and misinformation had been her trade and downfall, after all. He smirks slightly at the ruefulness that settles on her face.

“I do not know what you expect of me, monsieur. I assure you, whatever information I might have had on Ferelden is sorely out of date.” And for a moment, there is only bitterness in her expression. But then she sighs, and all of the emotion seems to leave her at once, and she is small again. “At first I had suspected Denerim as a fitting place for a political prisoner…but then you mentioned the Grey Wardens.”

“So you do know of the Grey Wardens.”

“Only what they speak of in children’s tales, or what the Chantry might tell us, monsieur,” Leliana says, and then stops, jaw clacking shut as if she had physically restrained herself from speaking too much. “But I would not wish to bore you, monsieur,” she adds, quieter. 

_Maybe her sin was speaking too much._ Duncan forcefully pushes the pity away; he suspects this girl would not want it. “I have always enjoyed hearing tales of other lands, even if only to compare them to what I know. What have you heard,” he asks, smiling gently. 

Leliana’s answering smile is tentative, but there. “…Not much, in truth. The wardens appear when needed, in the face of a blight, and when the deed is done, they disappear. Perhaps…unsung heroes, then.” She flushes slightly, carefully does not look at the shock (awe) that has crossed Duncan’s face. She adds hurriedly, “I would say I know more about the blight itself, monsieur.” She pauses, then says dryly, “or at least what the Chant teaches about the blight.” A pensive expression crosses her face as she adds, “I know that most reference Threnodies 8.13, but I cannot help but feel that Threnodies 7.10 and 11 are just as pertinent.”

Leliana looks up then, and Duncan is simultaneously pleased and outraged at the smirk that makes it way across her face when she notes the bewildered expression on his own. “Well?! You can’t leave it there!”

“’And as the black clouds came upon them,/They looked on what pride had wrought,/and despaired. ‘ and ‘The work of man and woman,/by hubris of their making. /The sorrow a blight unbearable.”

“Ah,” Duncan murmurs. He finds himself studying this slip of a girl even more closely. Close enough that she ducks her head in embarrassment, but he cannot help his regard. Spies by necessity must have cunning and intelligence, but this? This is…something else. He tilts his head curiously, “Pride then?”

She nodes once and then adds, “Pride goes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before the fall. I have always felt pride must have been the source of those magisters’ ambition… I suspect pride has always brought men to ruin,” she all but whispers. 

Duncan does not raise a hand to rest gently on those hunched shoulders, but it is a near thing. Instead, he clears his throat and says, “Well, I’m afraid most Grey Wardens are of the ‘when in doubt, hit it with a sword variety,’ but when we get to Ostagar you should try talking to Senior Warden Aberforth – he leads our mages, very cerebral, head in the clouds, forget to eat kind of guy. I think you’d find him interesting to talk to, at least.”

Leliana nearly chokes, she sputters so hard. “I assure you, I am not completely vapid! I just…think about things sometimes? I’ve had a lot of time to think, recently!”

“No, no! It’s not a bad thing. It’s interesting. Interesting! It’s just not a thought I’ve had and I have nothing interesting to say in return!”

  
\-----  


“So…Ostagar,” Leliana says, after their supper is finished, and the fire banked to little more than embers. She huddles into an extra blanket Duncan has given her, a thin shift the only alternative she has to the shredded remains of her Chantry robes.

“Yes,” Duncan replies, sucking heavily on his pipe. “I had thought about simply taking you to Denerim and then continuing on with my duties as a Warden…but that, I think, would be unwise.”

“Unwise?” Duncan can practically hear the woman’s eyebrows rise at the word.

“That would be the fate of a political prisoner. And well, the world is not kind to traitors, just as Ferelden is not kind to Orlais,” he says quietly.

“But a political prisoner is what I _am._”

Duncan’s eyes slide towards the girl. “Do you really think you would survive it?” 

Leliana’s silence is answer enough. “So why, then” she finally asks. “Some misguided attempt at protecting me?” She laughs, and it is a harsh, bitter sound. “As you are so fond of reminding us, I am an Orlesian traitor. Are you so sure I am deserving of protection?” Her smile is mocking. 

Duncan simply takes another long drag on his pipe. And then he asks, voice calm, “what would you have me do instead?” 

It’s enough to have Leliana sighing heavily, hand clenching convulsively around the simple pendant of a Sword of Mercy about her neck. Her words, when the come, are soft, weary. “I was to go to the Chantry at Lothering. It was…I had hoped…I am so very _tired_, monsieur.”

Duncan’s expression is sorrowful, but firm. “Maybe, if things had been different, you would have been able to rest; but often the world demands almost more than we can give. Now that I know you are here, I cannot simply let you go, knowing what you are. But, I find myself wondering, is it really rest you want, Leliana? Or is it redemption? I cannot offer you absolution. But I can offer you a chance at atonement.” He holds a hand up in the face of Leliana’s startled expression. “Don’t speak now. Think on it.” 

Duncan watches as the girl near drifts away, stumbling into their single tent, blanket clutched in a white-knuckled grip. He feels old suddenly, and scrubs at his face tiredly. _This is a thankless job. Has she realized she has no choice?_


End file.
